Da Capo Al Fine
by girlwhoplayswithfire
Summary: Kisses don't mean love. They don't even mean forever. They are well aware. What they have isn't love. They know this too. But Romano stays.


Okay, so, first fanfic on here. And the format is pissing me off, so...just bear with me here, okay?

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_Da Capo Al Fine - from the beginning, start over_

Kisses don't mean love. They don't even mean forever. They are well aware.  
Things aren't as sweet as they could be, or should be, for them. It could be sweeter than cotton candy - perhaps sickeningly so - but it isn't.  
What they have isn't love. They know this too.  
What they have is desperation and alcohol making their tongues slow and heavy with the taste of vomit and cheap booze and something chilling and numbing like the taste of chloroform.  
So when they lay on the bed with the sheets on the floor and their limbs tangled together and sweat drying cold, the only thing keeping Romano from leaving is the look of almost-adoration on Spain's face and the slightly loving way he wraps his arm around the Italian.  
So Romano stays.

_Comprimario - with the first, a supporting role_

Romano knows that Veneziano is the favorite.  
He isn't stupid. He hears the whispers, the quiet ones and then the ones that don't even try not to reach his ears.  
Veneziano's so nice and smart; what about Romano? Oh, Southern Italy? He's always so unhappy, it's rather unnerving. And his mouth is just foul; Veneziano is so much nicer. No one will ever love Romano anyway.  
So Romano proves them right, and he keeps his face blank and stays out of trouble and away from love because it's just going to hurt in the end.  
It didn't quite work out that way.  
It's like gambling, he decides; just wanting to get a little more and a little more until everything's gone.  
And when Spain is drunk after a night with Prussia and France, his breath hot on Romano's neck and just wreaking of alcohol, the Italian just shrugs and sighs, because he knows the Spaniard wants his brother (who wouldn't when it's Veneziano?) and lets the older nation kiss him until he's gasping for air and tears are pricking at his eyes and he's maybe a little drunk off Spain's breath because he knows he's just a replacement.  
And Romano wipes at his reddened eyes and cheeks wet with dampened salt and firmly insists he's not crying even though he plainly is; the Spaniard just coos and hugs him like the stupid bastard actually, maybe, possibly cares about him.  
He's not anyone's favorite, Romano knows. And love - or whatever they have - is going to end badly, probably with quite a bit of screaming and swearing. He really couldn't care either way.  
And he's a terrible liar.

_Sotto - subdued_

Their story is not a love story.  
Because, Romano reasons when he's lying awake and alone in the dead of night and unable to sleep, love stories are sappy, gushy - and he knows for sure that his and Spain's relationship is not like that. Love stories are built with words of affection and never-dying passion; their relationship is built with secret meetings, cutting arguments, sharp remarks, and sometimes the slipping of Romano's name on Spain's part. And love stories always seem to end up as tragedies.  
Once upon a time, their relationship might have been something close to a love story. There had been those nights, Romano's favorites (although he would forever deny it), when Spain would come over and just hold him while they ate tomatoes and laughed and hell, he misses it with an ache in his chest and a breaking heart.  
Now it's just sex, and afterwards Romano feels so used and so fucking good at the same time, and it nearly makes him sick in self-projected disgust.  
He knows he could say something. He should, and he would, but he can't bear to risk losing someone like Spain, all light and life and laughter.  
So he won't, he decides.  
But he can't help feeling that they might be heading for a tragedy after all.

_Tenuto - sustained, holding a single note_

The airport is way too empty for Romano's taste. It's white and gray, maybe silver too, and seems to be tipped deliriously to one side.  
The nation's eyelids slip down over his eyes so his vision is narrowed to a sliver of obscure and cloudy white, almost like he has a fever, as the odd voices echo in the empty hall and bounce around in his head.  
There's a few couples saying goodbye, and Romano turns his head away, slightly disgusted and more than a little envious.  
His gaze lands on a family, two boys being dragged behind the parents reluctantly, one complaining loudly at the time they woke up to make the flight.  
Maybe those boys will have a better life than him and his brother. Innocent humans. Maybe one won't get that sick feeling in his stomach when he sees the other, maybe one won't get jealous every damn time he sees the other surrounded by people, talking and laughing like they never do with him.  
Romano turns his head away sharply, the taste of bile on his tongue, away from the sickening, possibly vomit-inducing, thoughts.  
"Hey! Roma!"  
The Italian doesn't turn, keeping his gaze fixed on the white-gray, too clean, too pure terminal. Too pure for him and his lies that make his tongue drag and his mouth ache every time he smiles because he doesn't mean it.  
"Doesn't this airport have security for idiots like you?" He asks, and the harsh, biting edge of the words is dulled by the complete emptiness of the hall, hanging in the still air.  
"Nah." Spain just stands next to him; Romano can feel the lush, emerald-green eyes on his face. "Romano-"  
"We should go." The Italian cuts him off and hurries away because he just can't deal with the feelings crap right now when he doesn't really know his own feelings toward the happy nation with the big smile and the sparkling eyes that makes Romano's stomach flip.  
Maybe he has a fear of rejection. Or commitment. He doesn't really know what the difference is; they're all the same, right? A phobia.  
And maybe he just doesn't care that he's a screw-up and a huge failure when Spain smiles at him. And he'll deny that feeling because what they have isn't love; it's a friends-with-benefits sort of thing, except maybe they aren't even friends, maybe they're fuck-buddies and nothing more. Romano doesn't even know anymore.  
And maybe he'll keep it that way, staying away from the emotions and what he's thinking and feeling because it'll all go sour in the end anyway, and he should just enjoy it while he can.  
Numb. Yes, he'll keep it that way.

_Battaglia - battle, suggesting a fight_

Romano tilts his head to one side, studying the moon-lit face resting on the bleached cotton case of the pillow.  
Spain looks much more peaceful and empty when he's asleep, like a white-washed corpse except for the light exhales that stir the air and the rare mumbling under his breath.  
Romano feels the air around him chill with a sudden foreboding, like a curse, and he moves closer to the older nation, almost cuddling him, a strange - maybe fearful - feeling expanding like a balloon in his chest out to his fingertips.  
Spain rolls over in his sleep, flinging an arm over the Italian carelessly, a smile curving his lips up almost lovingly.  
Tears begin to prickle, hot and itchy, at the younger nation's eyes. He wipes them away and sniffs loudly, disgusted with himself for crying so much.  
Why does he feel like he wanted to be with Spain? Like as a couple? A real relationship? He'd long since came to terms with the fact that he wouldn't ever experience love, so why does he want to so fucking bad?  
It doesn't matter, he tells himself. It'll be just like a tragedy: eventually Spain will ditch him, and he'll be left alone. Again. As usual.  
A small, dark, wet stain grew on the white linen, getting bigger.  
He's acting like a freaking girl. Next he'll be eating chocolate ice cream and watching soap operas or some shit like that.  
Romano flips the pillow over to hide the tears and closes his eyes as if that will shut out the irritating, intruding feelings.  
It's much too hot under Spain's arm, and Romano twists around, trying to ignore the almost-stifling comfort the tanned arm provides, like he's wanted. Spain's heartbeat pounds in his ears, steady, almost reliable.  
Nothing about them is reliable, Romano thinks bitterly. They're chaotic. Uncontrolled.  
"Roma?" Spain stirs, lifting his head but making no move to unwrap the Italian from his embrace.  
"Go back to sleep." Romano tells him, his voice thick with suppressed emotion and tears.  
"You know I love you right?" Spain asks, suddenly awake and alert, concerned. Liar. "After all the stuff I put you through, you know I love you?"  
"Yeah." Romano says, keeping his voice blank. Don't lie to me asshole. Everyone else does it enough without you too.  
"'Kay." Spain lays back down, his voice slurring with sleep. He tugs the Italian closer, making the younger nation stiffen up with tears hot in his eyes and sharp nails digging into his own arm, drawing blood.  
Such a fucking liar.


End file.
